Porridge
by Cynic
Summary: Draco is Bored. Seamus has an Idea. Basically, Harry is Screwed. In several ways.


Porridge

--Cynic

Warning-Slash and utter nonsense. OOC to the max. Utterly utterly random. This is truly, a PWP in ever sense of the word.

Disclaimer- *incredulous stare* You honestly think CardboardDraco! J.K. Rowling would write this fic? First of all she's a far better writer. Second of all, she's in denial.

Don't sue me. 

A/N- Oh WOW this is weird. But I had to write it. I worship Maya and so if I unwittingly steal some of her jokes, I am sorry. I tried not to. It's difficult, though, when you read them every night before you go to bed instead of the bible. I blame it completely and totally on Kay. It's all her fault^^.  Entirely Her Fault. Except for the faultness that is Annahs. Starring Loopy!Draco and the Unsuspecting Gryffindors. 

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            Draco Malfoy was bored. He was not bored in the, "Oh I do believe I will play a pleasant game of chess with my lovely friends" only partly because he never talked like that unless his mother was near. Also, he would never play chess unless natural disaster or abstinence, and God knows the entire school was working together to prevent the latter. Furthermore, he had standing orders to be shot if he ever showed any hint of attraction to Crabbe or Goyle: the word lovely counted. But since he was not entirely sure they knew how to play chess, perhaps the point was moot. For that matter, could they read?

            No, Draco Malfoy was bored in the bang-your-head-against-the-wall-fall-asleep-for-the-fun-of-it-goats-were-starting-to-look-like-interesting-company way. And no, before you ask, he was not related to Aberforth. He married into the family. Lovely in white, though. 

            The school year thus far was entirely uninteresting. Voldemort decided that he didn't want to be a dark lord anymore, and the last word from him was from New Zealand where he seemed to have taken up growing dandelions for pleasure and profit.  Draco didn't like dandelions. They bothered him. The only events of note were Blaise's constant and pathetic attempts to get into his pants. After that episode with the Armani jacket, the jar of glitter, and four orange pickles, though, Blaise was never touching a garment of Draco's ever again.

            He stared at his breakfast in hate-which was a new development; it betrayed him for the orange juice- and decided that it was scum. If looks could kill, that porridge would be very dead. Or, at least, deader than it already was. He cackled wildly to himself, and his eye took on a gleam very similar to the one Voldemort now wears while holding a weed whacker, and picked up the spoon. He lifted a bit of the porridge up, watching it drip down. Oh yes! He could see it writhe in pain.

            Deciding that that was too good for the dastardly oatmeal, he set down his spoon. Humming a foreboding song underneath his breath, he grabbed the Tabasco Sauce. God only knows why they had such a vile American Muggle condiment at the table, but Draco had his theories. He thought it was the same reason that Slytherin was the only house with non-magical appliances. The house-elves were sadists and enjoyed pissing them off. He agreed with the little buggers though, it was amusing to watch Pansy try and figure out how to work the big black box thingy. Not that he knew how either,

            And the whole "Torture-A-Slytherin" game may be related to the carbon copy, the "Torture-A-House-elf" one, which was great fun on rainy Sundays.

            Pouring some of the cursed liquid into the horrible pottage, he grinned with maniacal delight.

            "Burn, Porridge, Burn!" he hissed at it. At these words, Zabini put a protective hand over his own oatmeal. As he continued to torture the oatmeal, he could have sworn he heard him say, "Don't worry. I won't let the bad man get you."

            He loved being a Slytherin.

            Over at the Gryffindor table Harry Potter was just as bored. His inner monologue, however, was not nearly as witty. He _was_ a Gryffindor, after all. Can't expect much from the bastards.  Dean Thomas was sitting on Seamus' lap and Neville was pondering whether or not blue nail polish went with black. Ron occasionally muttered something of, "Oh God! Am I the only hetero one?" to which the entire table turned to him and said two words, "Sixth Year." He typically blushed scarlet and then attempted to snog Hermione to forget that traumatizing time when he had seen the light in the form of Ziggy Stardust.

            Seamus, in that way of his, noticed that we were all bored, and decided to interrupt Harry's happy stare-of-into-space session.   Neville, recognizing the look on his face from years of experience, immediately proceeded to hide under the table. Everyone else looked like they wanted too. Hermione sighed, rolled her eyes, and with the air of the much aggrieved, spoke, "Seamus. What is it _now?_"

            Seamus cackled and rubbed his hands together most disturbingly. He paused his demonic laughter to breath for a moment and then continued chortling. Dean decided that he had enough of that and slapped him once. Blinking, Seamus continued, "Harry. I dare you to go over there and kiss Draco Malfoy."

The entire table did a double take.

"What-" began Ron.

"-the-" continued Lavender.

"-fuck?" finished the luckless Harry Potter.

Dean giggled and clapped in joy, "Yes, yes! I double dare you!"

They all sent him a look that read "Traitor" in seven languages and subtitles. Dean shrugged and said, "It'd be really hot."

            Everybody but Ron and Harry mused on this for a second, nodded resolutely and Ginny said, "Yup. Definitely. Run along then, dear."

            Ron proceeded to make a strangled sound and bang his head on the table, careful to avoid any glass. The other week he had banged straight into his glass of milk, and it had shattered. Blood everywhere. Must unpleasant, if funny as hell. Harry glared at the girl, and muttered something that sounded like, "Goddamn Guns and Handcuffs."

            He sent an equally as scathing glare to the rest of the table and was met with blissful blank smiles. Damn Gryffindors. He appealed to a higher order, sending a "meep. Help me!" look to Hermione. She looked faintly guilty, but shrugged and mouthed at him, "It'll be really really hot."

            Resisting the urge to strangle her to death, he stood, straightening his robe. 

            "Fine then. I'll do it."

Seamus grinned happily and waved at him to go over.

            "Go get 'em, tiger!"

            Harry responded with a single finger, inspiring catcalls and wolf whistles from the rest of the table. Squaring his soldiers, he marched over to the funeral march, courtesy of the Gryffindor Girls.

            Draco heard the faint sounds of music, but dismissed it as one of his voices' singing lessons. You thought that was bad, imagine when they started a garage band. The covers of Alice Cooper were pain, personified. 

            He turned his attention back to the cereal in front of him, and brought his head real close to it. Peering down his long nose into its depths he murmured malevolently,

"You don't know pain, yet, but you will. You'll know pain above all else, and below all else, so you will know nothing besides pain and everything you know will be pain. It will consume you, filling your every fiber and making every fiber useless because all that you will be will be the pain, eternal and intense. I'll stop and you'll scream for more because that it is all you will be and without you will feel as if you were dead. I will make you love the anguish and I will make you beg for more."

            He practiced those sort of speeches a lot. That was a particularly good one, the repetition of the word pain brought a certain…painful… quality to the rhythm. He was most impressed with himself.

            Harry heard Draco's speech and his eyes widened, impressed and frightened by the fact that Draco felt porridge could feel pain. Or understand him. Or beg for more. His head began to hurt faintly and he dismissed the entire thing to the part of his brain labeled "Things I will Never Understand (Probably because I am a Gryffindor)" Well, the last bit wasn't in there originally, but it had been graffiti'ed on. Probably by Draco's voices. Annoying bastards had egged his head last Halloween. 

            Gathering his resolve he yelled, "By George, Malfoy, I think that porridge has had enough!" and shoved it away.

            Draco stood, storm clouds building in his lovely gray eyes. 

            "It deserved every bit of it," he spat, disdain and vengeance etched into his face.

            "I'm sure. Now, to business." 

            And then Harry kissed Draco, much to the surprise of both parties. And Draco found himself kissing back, to the shock and near collapse of Harry. But by that time, Draco's arms were wrapped tightly around the other boy and his hands exploring the flat and toned back, so he stayed up.

            Draco wasn't entirely sure why he was kissing back, but he decided it must be a good thing because it felt good. Yes, he had the moral complexity of a two year old. Fuck off. His tongue sought entrance into Harry's mouth, entirely of its own accord, I assure you, and was given leave. Draco sneered into the welcoming warmth and felt superior. His mouth would have at least charged tax. 

            His slender fingers, strong from many hours of polishing his broom, caressed patterns into the thick muscle of Harry's back, but Harry's own hands were not idle. Busy hands in this case got him into trouble. They fiddled with the buttons of Draco's robe, and in a fashion true to his nature, got frustrated and ripped them off. Harry felt more cloth underneath the heavy wool and for a moment cursed the fact that Draco was wearing anything. Then he realized the strangeness of that thought and banished it forever.  

            Draco was quite finished exploring Harry's mouth and he moved southward, licking his jaw suggestively before moving on to nibble and suck his slender neck. Harry tilted his head backward for better access and opened his closed eyes.

            Only to see the entire great hall completely still and silent and staring back at him. The girls that were not smiling like maniacs looked like they might cry. Some of the boys had similar expressions. Snape was underneath the table, gibbering and crying, and Trelawny looked distinctly smug. Dumbledore merely twinkled benignly at the horrorfied room. Harry froze.

            Sensing something was a matter, Draco looked up from his duties and blinked at the hall. Smirking, he resumed kissing Harry's neck. 

            "Do carry on, Harry. Don't let us interrupt you," spoke Dumbledore sagely, waving a single hand in emphasis. Draco's head snapped up and he backed four feet away from Harry. Pervy old coot. 

            Harry laughed nervously and stared around at the hall like a deer caught in the headlights. Rolling his eyes, Draco grabbed him by the collar and proceeded to march out of the hall, shouting behind him, "Continue your breakfast, good people of Hogwarts."

            Leaving the Great Hall, Draco let go of Harry and continued walking, clearly expecting Harry to follow. Harry didn't. Okay, he did, but only because he wanted to. It had nothing to do with the fact that Draco was an addictive kisser. 

            "Where are we going?" he said, gasping as he tried to keep up with Draco's frolicking. 

            "Duh. My room."

            ((heh. heh. heh. I feel evil. *cackles joyously* Well, if enough people want me to continue, I will, but since I highly doubt it, I probably won't write any more of it until I get reactions. After all, Becca never writes humour. Becca has odd and strange sense of humour. Becca has funny feeling that most lovely fanfiction.net readers will appreciate said odd and strange sense of humour. Yes, Becca does need professional help.))


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